


Fanservice?

by Janice_Lester



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-29
Updated: 2012-10-29
Packaged: 2017-11-26 19:08:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/653477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janice_Lester/pseuds/Janice_Lester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zach gets hired for a strange little movie.  He's pretty sure a secret fan conspiracy is involved somehow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fanservice?

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a postage stamp for my first 2012 [](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/profile)[kink_bingo](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/) card, to hit the kinks "oral fixation", "leather latex rubber", "prostitution/sex work" [as my wildcard], and "exposure/exhibitionism".

It’s not _the_ most outlandish role Zach’s ever played, but it’s up there. It’s for a crowd-funded indie film project he strongly suspects was cunningly devised by fans. In the film Zach plays Jack M. Jones, the billionaire playboy owner of JackIt, an avante-garde, stripper-equipped nightclub which is fictional New York’s latest buzzing nightlife sensation. As well as being a billionaire playboy, Zach’s character—and this is the part where he believes he detects fan involvement—also appears once a week in disguise as the headline male stripper, the masked and leather-loving Brass. As well as wearing a variety of masks and leather outfits, and of course sundry teeny tiny thongs with vastly more sparkle than coverage, Brass also enjoys sucking on an endless sequence of candy canes whenever he’s out in public. All year round. On stage and off. (Zach privately decides that the guy’s a recovering chain-smoker who needs to keep his mouth busy in order to make his latest quitting attempt stick.)

He’s not just being vain and/or paranoid here. The casting process was _weird_. There wasn’t a screen test. They asked him to prepare an audition piece based on a two-hundred-word character sketch and precisely zero pages of actual script. They refused to say who else they were considering. They raised their offer twice while the paperwork was still getting the fine-toothed-comb treatment from Zach’s understandably suspicious entertainment lawyer. They were completely flexible regarding shooting schedules and made sure to let him know that his significant other would be welcome on set at any time.

Oh, yes. He doesn’t think it’s arrogance—or not _just_ arrogance—making him think this little project might be All About Him. (Well, him and one Jared Padalecki, who plays his character’s best friend, accountant, and nudge-nudge-wink-wink love interest.)

So he, uh, probably shouldn’t enjoy those ideas—of fan involvement and Padalecki involvement—so much. But, hey, it motivates him to hit the gym harder, get himself in even more drool-worthy shape than usual.

He has a little dressing room on a hired sound stage. It’s nice enough. Quiet. He’s rooted around a bit, reassured himself of the absence of hidden cameras. Foolish, really. It’s not like he hasn’t shown pretty much all there is on stage before, in _Angels_ , and he’ll be showing _most_ of it here on this film, while demonstrating that he has learned a few things from the pole-dancing coach they hired for him.

Chris, of course, thinks it’s all _hilarious_. Especially the part where he has fake candy canes provided for most scenes, as if someone is very concerned that Zach not gain an ounce during filming. Then again, perhaps they think he might be in danger of going on some kind of sugar-fuelled rampage if his consumption is left unchecked.

“You wait,” Zach tells him sternly, flicking at the newspaper until Chris lowers it to reveal his pretty face. “They’ll get you too, one of these days.”

Chris blows a raspberry. “Once you’ve co-stared with Lindsay Lohan, there’s not all that much they can really do to you.”

Zach opens his mouth, but decides he’ll concede that one.

“Besides,” Chris adds, tapping thoughtfully at the three days of stubble gracing his chin, “it’ll be hot. Like, a permanent record of your unspeakable hotness. You can look back on it in your eighties and be like, wow, I had a big package and a trim waist.”

Okay, so perhaps he’ll concede that one too. But he’s still feeling weird about this. “Maybe I could ask to meet the writer?”

“Bad call. She’ll ask you about the _character_ and you’ll have to double-down on the bullshit. Isn’t it bad enough convincing interviewers that this is the best, deepest, most thought-provoking and world-changing and wonderful role ever in the whole history of cinema? You want to have to sell that to the hack who wrote it too?”

This conversation is not going at all the way Zach wanted it to. “I’m having a bath. Anyone calls, tell them I’m preparing vital sense memories and can’t be disturbed.”

“Got it,” Chris says, and disappears back behind his newspaper.

***

Three days into shooting his Brass scenes, Chris shows up. He claims he is there to “lend moral support”, but, unless the definition of that has changed to something more like “ogle my nearly-nude boyfriend sucking candy,” Zach doesn’t think he’s performing that function terribly well.

Whatever, he’s a professional. He returns his full attention to dancing his ass off, ruthlessly suppressing sudden Technicolor mental images of Chris getting up here too to work what has to be the most spectacular posterior in the room, if not the state. (Though Padalecki, he admits, boasts a strong claim to second place.)

“So,” Chris asks him, when the AD calls a break for lighting reset, “you think this Brass dude has his candy canes specially infused with cocaine or something? Or you think he just wants to get customers thinking about what else they could get him to suck?”

“Maybe he just likes the taste?” Zach suggests, with a delicate inflection of eyebrow. He shrugs gratefully into the fluffy bathrobe a helpful PA has brought him.

When Chris starts to answer, Zach shoves a candy cane—a real one, this time, not a plastic prop—in his mouth and coaxes his jaw shut.

“Eww,” Chris observes a moment later. “This was just _in your mouth_.”

“You’d prefer if it had been in my mouth an hour ago, and was now cold and dust-encrusted?”

Chris removes the candy cane so he can poke out his tongue, but then apparently decides it was delicious after all and resumes sucking on it. Well, slurping, more like.

“Besides, it’s not like my saliva is an alien substance. You’ve had a good deal of experience with the stuff.”

Chris’s nose wrinkles adorably. “I’m not sure this conversation is good for my health. How ‘bout you get back to the sexy dancing? That’s what I came for.”

“That,” Zach sighs, “is what _everyone_ came for.”

“I know, I know, this is all a plot, whole world is out to get you, persecution, cunning schemes, pervy fans, naked Zach, yadda yadda.”

“Thank you, Mister Sympathy and Understanding. Remind me again why I put up with you?”

Chris licks the candy shaft obscenely as he’s removing it. “Because of the prodigious quantities of my witty banter. Because you couldn’t prove what an efficient neat freak you are if you didn’t have someone around to dirty the place up now and then. Because you just can’t get enough of my ass. Because I give a mean blowjob. Because our mothers are becoming heterosexual life partners or something. Because I can cook and you can only make things lukewarm or burned. Because I am as close to perfection as you’re ever going to find, and you just basically can’t live without me.” He nods, satisfied with his summary, and happily resumes work on his sugar fix.

Thus enlightened, Zach obeys the call to return to the pole, leaving his bathrobe behind him. He accepts a new candy cane from the props person, carefully denudes it of its plastic wrapping. Back to the grindstone.

***

“I’d make a good billionaire playboy,” Chris announces, while they’re lying in bed pondering that all-important decision of sleep versus continued sexual exertions. “They should make me a Bond villain or something. I could be like 007’s evil American alter ego.”

Zach yawns. “Sorry. That wasn’t a comment on your fantasy casting.”

“I could absolutely play an evil villain. I could knock that shit out of the park.”

“Hmm. I’d like to play Bond’s ‘old friend’, with whom he is suspiciously close. Like the leads in _Ben-Hur_.”

“Perhaps they went to boarding school together,” Chris says. He sounds like he’s actually considering the implications.

Zach is inspired to reward him, and the conversation dies a quick death as he disappears head first under the sheets.

***

By the end of the sixth day shooting Brass’s onstage antics, Zach has reached a level of blasé comfort with the amount of skin he’s showing. He’s even started to enjoy trying to get reactions out of the increasingly bored crew members. By the time they come to shoot the big finale scene, where Zach is backed by a score of professional dancers in skimpy white sailors’ costumes, he has a few new moves under his belt and has most definitely rediscovered the eroticism in the scenario. Thoughts of Chris keep intruding, so he attempts to mollify his brain by telling it he’ll convince Chris to attempt an exotic dance for them later.

He’s brought to a standstill when he returns to his dressing room by the sight of new and colourful script pages waiting for him on the counter. He skims them mistrustfully as he’s cleaning and moisturising his face on auto-pilot.

Needn’t have worried. It’s a good polish, rounds out Jack Jones in subtle but important ways, with no pedestrian revelations about the character’s troubled childhood or strained familial relationships. Jack remains someone who has simply made choices in life, unusual ones, perhaps, and continues to enjoy the fruits of those choices.

Zach suddenly feels decidedly generous. _~hey,~_ he texts Chris, _~if i borrow one of my costumes tonight, you think we could find some use for it?~_

_~Um, let me think..YES yes YES PLEASE OMG~_

It’s not like Chris to abuse his words so. Zach smiles. That idea is clearly a winner, then.

***

The leather jacket fits him like a second skin. Which is ridiculous, really, when you consider that it’s supposed to be a _stripper’s costume_. Zach lost count of the takes they had to redo owing to his practical difficulties generating wardrobe malfunctions on cue, and he half expects that the finished film will have a suspicious cut, with jacket-clad Brass on one side and jacket-free Brass on the other. He consoles himself that it isn’t his problem; wardrobe is not his department, and it isn’t as if anyone would have been receptive to his advice on the subject. He’s only the talent, after all.

“Okay,” Chris says. “Liking the leather look. Maybe a bit too… fashionable, though? Could be sexier if I could imagine you’d just hopped off a big grunty motorbike out back.”

“Oh, really?” He applies gentle hands to Chris’s shoulders, guides him back against the nearest wall. “Tell me more.” Only he doesn’t let Chris tell him more, because he can’t resist claiming a quick yet thorough kiss (a Zachary Quinto special, that is).

“You taste like peppermints,” Chris says, when he gets his mouth free. “I like.”

So Zach gives him another taste, and that’s pretty much the end of _that_ conversation, though there is a pleasant interlude during which Chris praises the obviously sterling character of Zach’s purloined g-string. Which they never actually remove. It’s too minimal to get in the way much, anyway.

***

Something really strange happens with the distribution, so that the DVDs are available for pre-order online before the film has actually opened in any theatres.

It’s no _Star Trek_ , but it’s disturbingly popular. Something Chris finds hugely amusing, even though he constantly insists that he’s _merely proud of you, man. You’re amazing, so talented._

Zach suspects some kind of guerrilla marketing campaign. He’d go looking for evidence on Twitter, only Twitter is kind of a time-suck for him and he’d probably be gone for three days looking at pictures of cute piglets and adding his two cents to various heated political debates before he actually got anywhere near uncovering any clandestine movie promotion schemes.

Chris has taken to keeping a ready supply of candy canes on hand, and Zach once caught him googling “safety of candy canes for rectal insertion”. He didn’t ask, okay?

***

“So,” says Jared Padalecki, when they’re finally—finally—sharing a ride to their first promotional interviews for _JackIt_ , “was there a weird vibe on this whole project, or what?”

Zach frowns. “I’ve had my suspicions since day one. A cartel of secret _Trek_ and _Supernatural_ fans with film degrees and a lot of wherewithal, you think?”

Padalecki shrugs. “I hadn’t thought of the film degrees part. Then again, I’ve seen some really shitty scripts from folks with MFAs, and there are some terrible directors out there with serious Hollywood pedigrees.”

“Agreed,” Zach says, with a delicate shudder and a stern effort not to remember.

“It almost seems like something Misha would do. Misha Collins, you know him?”

“Vaguely. He’s very big on Twitter, as I recall.”

“Yeah, he has this whole army of followers, calls them his Minions. I’m sure they’re wonderful people, individually. But if they ever all get together? Colour me scared.”

The car pulls up, and Zach follows Padalecki out.

“Well, whatever the deal, I guess we gotta make the best of it.”

Zach nods, skips ahead to hold open the door to the building.

Padelecki bows slightly as he precedes him inside.

***

Chris gives Zach a stripper pole for his birthday. It is somewhat difficult to tell whether or not this is supposed to be a joke. Either way, the only appropriate response is to sign them up for a couples’ pole dancing class at the local gym.

Life returns to what passes for routine in Hollywood.

Until Chris gets a call from his agent. Is he free to audition for a low-budget indie horror flick about someone terrorising male models, co-staring someone called Ackles?

Zach stands, blinking suspiciously at the speakerphone.

His head snaps up when Chris answers, perfectly businesslike, “Are they offering anywhere close to my usual fee?”

“Yes, actually. And it’s not going to win any trophies, but the script’s solid and the director’s a name.”

“Okay.” Chris yawns. “When do they want to see me?”

Zach starts to say something, but Chris shushes him with a dismissive gesture.

Well, fine, then. He’ll just go and dangle athletically upside down from a pole and leave his lover to his fate. And possibly laugh until he falls on his head. Karma, dear friends, can be sweet.

***END***


End file.
